


staggered and stifled through silence or static

by coyotestoryteller



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Declarations Of Love, I don't know it's weird, M/M, but not to the person in question, i wrote this in one sitting and by god does it show, johanna and sim cameo, podcast au? a bit?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28974093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotestoryteller/pseuds/coyotestoryteller
Summary: "One could say that your drug is love-- but would anyone dare call a man, recently rescued from starvation in the wilderness, who gobbles down stale bread as if it's heavenly nectaraddicted?"
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	staggered and stifled through silence or static

**Author's Note:**

> i know this is weird and i don't have any answers for you it is what it is this is what writing is like when i'm tired

_AUDIO TRANSCRIPT, CONSTANCE HELEN DENWORTHY HOUSE, AUGUST 2019_

_A spotlight settles over Percy_ _N., who is standing on the stage of an auditorium. He is_ _a tall man in his mid-twenties, with dark curly hair and dark skin. He is wearing a suit jacket with a rainbow pride pin on it, dress pants, and a button-down._

 _Percy,_ _quietly:_ To my darling, a stifled love confession:

You are a contradiction, both loud and quiet at the same time. Loud in speech except around your father, loud in movement except around your father, quiet in thought and quiet in suffering. You are soft on the inside and hard as dried blood caked on the knees of an eleven-year-old physically forced to kneel on rough asphalt.

You're pretty. You're so goddamned pretty. You walk in the world with golden hair and a sharp jaw and a soft stomach, vodka on your breath and delight in your eyes. You have cold eyes. You have the most empty eyes half the time. Someone might think it's that there's nothing behind them, no whirring or clicking in your pretty head, but I know that's not true. It could never be true. It's simply that you take yourself away.

_His voice rises in volume._

They don't know you-- all the lovers you meet in clubs, all the friends you meet in school, all the people who pass you by or the people who decide to take your picture without asking. Even your family doesn't know you. Your sister is too wrapped up in keeping herself alive in zero-degree weather that she can't spare a thought for you on the pyre. Your mother is impassive as the walls of a a meat locker. And your father? He is flame.

There are days when it consumes you, and you can no longer stand to be alive; days when you consider taking a medicine cabinet cocktail, or stepping quite casually, with all your usual swagger, off the bridge over the rapid-crested river. There are days where you can hardly stand to hear your own name, the harshness of _Henry,_ the robust maleness, the similarity to your father. Everything comes down to your father. You drink because of your father, you bleed because of your father, you will die because of your father.

_A gasp is heard from the limited studio audience, comprised of Johanna H and Sim A, who are other anonymous volunteer storytellers, and Miriam Wolsey, the current artistic director of Anonymous Audio. Johanna is the one who gasped._

_Percy takes a deep breath and a step closer to the mic_. _In a lower tone:_

You will die.

Someday, you will die. It will not be as soon as you hope, and it will not be at your own hand. You will be happy when you die-- not happy _to_ die, but simply accepting of it, and knowing that you have found happiness on your own. No one will kill you. The world _will_ choose to grant you some sliver of happiness, to let justice be served and allow to you what you truly deserve, and you will not die lonely. You will die old and gentle, and in your sleep.

At least, if I have anything to say about it.

_There is a beat of silence while Percy composes himself._

_Percy_ : You're a junkie, in the basest of terms, although it would be hard to decide on your drug of choice. One could say it's alcohol-- it's certainly impossible for you to get up in the morning without a swig of brandy from the flask you hide under your long, loose shirts that you leave unbuttoned a bit lower than is strictly reasonable. It could be sex; god knows you wouldn't function without creased sheets and long nights to look forward to. It could be pain-- but not physical pain. You'd taken enough of that to last a lifetime by the time you were fifteen. I've seen you, though, wallowing in misery, looking for the people who hate you and reading their words over and over again. You keep score against yourself. It's impossible to win.

One could say that your drug is love-- but would anyone dare call a man, recently rescued from starvation in the wilderness, who gobbles down stale bread as if it's heavenly nectar _addicted?_

This is cruel to write about you, I believe. I've been cruel in my depiction of you. This isn't what you're like most of the time. I've covered what you're like around your family, around your friends, around all those lovers who want their hands on you. I've pointed out your worst flaws, and I'm sorry for that. Perhaps it's simply that I'm angry, that I'm jealous.

_Percy takes a step back, throwing his arms out._

_Percy:_ And how could I not be? I am your closest friend. I'm the only one who truly knows you-- you told me yourself. I have been in love with you since I was thirteen. You have never given me any sign that my affections might be returned. You are the dearest darling of my heart, the person who matters most to me in the world, and you break my heart every time you go out. I go with you, of course-- who would take care of you if I didn't? I watch you make eyes at beautiful people across the room-- and you don't discriminate, you know that I'm gay, so it's not even that you don't swing my way. You simply _don't love me._

_He steps closer to the mic._

I love you very, very much. And because of this-- because of the simple fact that I love you more than life itself-- it shouldn't be so hard to compliment you.

Beyond being pretty, and beyond being cracked and much closer to broken than to whole, you're a wonder. You say things sometimes that set my head spinning, in a good way, things that reset the entirety of the world around you. Your offhand comments and your quick jokes cast a different light on the universe. I'm drawn to you. You're the man in the moon, so call me a moth.

But you'll never love me. You will never be mine, my darling, my dear one, my heart. I will never be brave enough to say these things to your face. I will remain your friend, and take care of you, and love you from behind empty eyes, and you will be happy, someday. Does it matter if I am always longing? I will get used to it in time, learn to sleep on cold floors and wake up early with a head as clear as broken glass.

 _He laughs ruefully._ What's love to a workaday life?

_The lights dim. Footsteps are heard as Percy leaves the stage._

_This is a transcript of an Anonymous Audio guest storyteller's performance at the Constance Helen Denworthy House, complete with description of the video shot during this performance. The audio can be found here_. _Percy N. has requested that the video itself not be revealed._

_Anonymous Audio is a non-profit project entirely funded by the heirs of the Denworthy estate, dedicated to bringing light to human stories that otherwise would be lost to time. Find out more or become a volunteer storyteller here._


End file.
